


Ghosts

by consulalexander



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, M/M, Speculative, here there be tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 13:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18605683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulalexander/pseuds/consulalexander
Summary: Alec can only be stoic for so long. Post 3x19 speculative drabble.





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> This lil thing was born from random Tumblr posts about how Alec wasn't emotive enough in 3x19. Here's my short take on that.

His room feels cold.

It’s like the mundane ghost stories he heard as a child, whispered quietly in dark rooms under the covers with Isabelle and, later, Jace. There’s a patch of cold where a spirit resides, like a sun spot filtered in from a window. The sensation is eerie, crawling into your skin and settling in your bones, deep and heavy, shivers running down your spine. It’s more than feeling cold… it’s feeling _wrong_.

At least, that’s what the stories say. Alec’s never encountered a ghost—he isn’t sure if he even believes in them or not—but he imagines that it feels something like this empty chill assaulting him as he enters the room.

There’s no spirit here, he knows that. But there is the ghost of memory, and that’s worse.

He gets ready for bed meticulously, shedding the head of the Institute shield he’s been hiding behind and becoming just Alexander Lightwood, lost boy with a broken heart. He swaps his blazer and button down for a soft t-shirt and sweats; brushes his teeth furiously; washes his face and neck and tries not to think about the shattering silence in the room.

He’s like a turtle, retreating deep into his shell when the world around him becomes too unbearable. He knows he’s been cold, aloof, distancing himself from everyone and focusing solely on his duties as a leader. But he has to—he’s holding on with an iron grip to the only thing left he has to ground him. There’s so much going on, with Clary gone rogue and everything falling apart around them because of it. Other people need him, especially now, and he’s always had a savior complex. Alec throws himself head on into danger—he’s a Shadowhunter, it’s what they _do_ —but it’s always to protect, always to rescue, not for the thrill of the chase and the adrenaline rush like his parabatai. He can’t lose his head when there are people who need to be saved.

At least, he can’t in his office, or the ops center, or the armory or anywhere else frequented by other residents of the Institute.

But here, in this haunting bedroom, no one is coming.

He’s alone.

Alec turns off the lights and slides into his bed, the sheets stiff against his skin, stretching his neck and staring at the popcorn ceiling. He found the ceiling funny as a kid; he’d taken a bad tumble off his bed post once, standing on top of it on his tip toes to reach the textured plaster, his fingers barely grazing the rough bumps before he toppled forward, hitting his head on the hardwood floor. Maryse had come swooping in, somehow sensing he was in trouble in the instinctual way that mothers just _know_ things. He hadn’t cried, and she’d been proud of him for it.

His arm reaches subconsciously across the bed as he ponders, his fingers sliding on the sheets and coming up with nothing but cold air.

Somehow, that’s the thing that breaks him.

Alec curls in on his side, his breath hitching. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands curled into tight fists trying to stop the inevitable, but it’s pointless. The tears start coming anyway.

Soon, he’s choking on them, his entire body shaking as the sobs pour out of him like a dam. He grips the sheets tightly in his fists, knuckles turning white, and salt stains his pillow. He throws caution to the wind because no one can see him, no one _knows_ that he’s falling apart behind the mask of leadership.

No one knows the sacrifice he’s made.

Alec made the right decision—he has to think he did because otherwise it’s too much, it’s too goddamn painful to think that all of this may have been for naught. He’s come to learn over the past few months that he will do anything for love, a truth he hadn’t expected going into his relationship with Magnus. But here he is, lying in bed breaking apart because he’s sacrificed everything for love. That’s supposed to be the ideal, to be so in love with someone that you’d do anything for them. That’s supposed to be what everyone wants.

Alec had it. He had everything. True love, soulmates, the whole package.

And that’s why he did it. Sometimes, when you love something you have to let it go, or so the saying goes. He wants to believe that, wants it so desperately he can taste it in his tears, but how can he when he’s wasting away from the pain? Being the savior isn’t supposed to hurt this much. Saving the love of your life isn’t supposed to leave you this broken.

He must be insane, and that just makes him cry harder, until he’s gasping for air and digging his nails into his palms so hard blood begins to spot. The ghost of Magnus’ presence sits on his chest, heavy with pounds of glitter and sandalwood and memories that are almost killing him to recall. He lets out a suffocated scream into his pillow and feels like a silhouette of a person.

When he’s spent like a sponge, salt and wet leaking out of every inch of his skin, he closes his eyes from exhaustion and drifts, into an alternate reality where strong arms are wrapped around him like a life line and kisses rain down his neck.

But when he wakes, he’s alone, and still being haunted.

 


End file.
